Chicago Circle Campus, August 1969 (Six Years Later)
I looked at the clock for perhaps the twentieth time in the past ten minutes. My appointment had been for three o'clock, and my shift at Bernie's began at four. They were running forty minutes behind. I could count on Candy to make my excuses. The real pain would be missing my familiar early-bird customers, mostly elderly men and a few retired couples. Many tipped me generously. One had been so brash as to say, "Big tits, big tip, Rosie." He laughed when I scolded him, and left a two-dollar tip for a meal that cost only three dollars. Customers like that needed coddling.
For now, I sat with eight other people on hard oak chairs in a stuffy waiting room. Most of the others stared into space, but one, a handsome, athletic-looking boy, boldly looked me up and down. A secretary, with a face that had never, ever smiled, sat at a desk, guarding the row of four inner offices. A plaque on her desk identified her as A. Zweig; the absence of a wedding ring further refined her name to Miss Zweig. From time to time, a young man or woman would leave one of the offices, bearing a folder full of papers, and the Dragon Lady would call out another name.
"Nathan Rosen, see Dr. Russell in Room Two," said Miss Zweig. The handsome boy stood up, stretched, and glanced at my legs one last time before going into the second office.
A moment later, another young man left the fourth office. Miss Zweig watched him over her glasses as he departed. She looked at me and said, "RoseAnn Perez, Dr. Warburton in Room Four."
I got to my feet, checking my reflection in a glassed painting on the wall to be sure my hair was still under control. Most of the eyes in the room followed me, perhaps because I was older than the others, perhaps because I was by several inches the tallest person in the room.
Room Four was a cramped, messy office with a beaten oak desk and more hard chairs. A freckled, sandy-haired man, younger than I expected, sat behind the desk. When he saw me, his eyes widened briefly. They were blue, but a soft blue, not at all like Mike's.
This late in the day, I assumed he'd be so tired that he'd no longer be able to tell one student from another. To my surprise, he jumped up and rushed around his desk, holding the chair while I seated myself. He closed the door and returned to his swivel chair, leaving behind a faint whiff of cologne.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. They schedule these appointments much too close together. I'm Dr. Craig Warburton." He glanced at the open folder in front of him "And you're Miss RoseAnn Perez. Right?" he said. He pointed at the wedding ring on my left hand. "Is it Miss or Mrs?"
It was an intrusive question, but perhaps it was important that he know. "I call myself 'Miss Perez' now, sir. I've been divorced six months."
He grunted, as if that information was of no use to him, which, of course, it wasn't.
I caved in to the urge to explain anyway. "The ring is to ward off evil spirits."
He laughed, an explosive guffaw that I didn't expect from him. When the echo of the laugh faded, he said, "You said here that you want to enroll in physics and math. Is that still your plan?"
"Sure. I've always been good in math."
"But it seems that you're going to need some kind of grant or loan to get through four years of college."
"Yes, sir. I was hoping to apply for a student loan, or a scholarship of some kind."
He leaned back in his chair. "And you plan to keep a full-time job while you're taking a full load of courses? Do you understand how much time physics and math courses will take?"
"I think I can do it. Others have."
He drummed his pencil point on the desk, seeming to be lost in thought for a moment. "Have you ever considered engineering?"
"Engineering?" I shook my head. "I can't say I have. Isn't it more of a man's profession?"
"So far, yes. But your test scores indicate a strong sense of spatial orientation and well-developed analytic abilities. You have a particular aptitude for engineering, especially in the mechanical and electrical areas. Does that surprise you?"
I shook my head, slowly. "Not really, sir. I've repaired my own car several times, and while I was married, I did repairs around the trailer—ah, house. I even built a laundry room with my own hands, plumbing, electrical, the works."
Because my lazy-ass drunk of a husband wouldn't lift a finger himself.
"I'll tell you why it matters, especially to someone in your position. The professional societies are alarmed at the small number of engineering graduates. A lot of students are being sent to Viet Nam. When they come back, many never return to class. Even the ones that do, there's some that can't function in school or in a regular job any more—drug problems, combat fatigue, problems with authority, and such. After so many years of war, there's a serious shortage of engineers.
"Besides that, there's the simple matter of economics. A lot of talent is going to waste because women aren't going into engineering. So some of the professional societies have funded scholarships specifically to support women going into engineering professions."
I was confused. My half-baked plan to be a high school science teacher was suddenly in a tailspin. An engineer? How would I look, wielding a slide rule, dressed in a hardhat and steel-toed boots?
"Hardly any women have applied. If you were to change your mind and go into engineering, with your scores you'd be a shoo-in for one of these scholarships. It's a full ride, four years, as long as you keep up your grades. And as long as you stay out of trouble, of course." He laughed at this last, as if a woman my age was far too smart to screw up her life. As if.
"I'm older than most of the students here." I said.
